


DC15  Watching the Parade go By

by WichitaRed



Category: Alias Smith and Jones
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 06:11:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13001535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WichitaRed/pseuds/WichitaRed
Summary: Watching the Parade go By: nothing like All Hallows and an interrupted peaceful morning to get a soul missing what they don't have.Destiny’s Cycle (DC) follows the Outlaw days.. what does Destiny have in store. Each month, I get a challenge, and then the cycle continues. You can follow KC, HH, & the gang through their adventures. DC does link together, but some tales stand on their own. Yet, its building its own world history, inside jokes, characters, places, etc. I hope you enjoy DC. Feedback WELCOMED!





	DC15  Watching the Parade go By

“Watching the Parade go by….”|

 

 

 

Never seemed to matter what time he went to sleep or even how much he drank, Heyes as usual found himself awake with the dawn. Slipping down to Lottie’s enormous kitchen, he found a half pot of cold coffee, from the night before. Dumping a handful of grinds in, he topped it off with well water, and filling the black stove, relit the fire.

Back out in the main room, he poked about the shambled mess, the place had been left in when last night's festivities had, eventually, moved to the many bedrooms situated upstairs. From one of the tables, he snagged a piece of carrot cake, taking it to the kitchen, he stood munching and watching the coffee pot. Wiping the crumbs from his fingers on his pant leg, he then removed newspapers from the burn bin, and taking a cup and the pot, headed for the front porch.

The morning was brisk, but not really cold. Taking a seat on the porch swing, he filled his cup; setting the pot on the white, painted floorboards. Holding the cup to his face; he inhaled the strong blend and savored a long drink, before placing the cup on the swings armrest. Flicking an eye to the door, assuring he was alone, he patted his pockets and finding his makings, rolled a quirley. With a wry grin, he popped the smoke in his mouth, happy Kid was not there to scowl at him. Striking a match across the sole of his boot, he exhaled the blue gray smoke into the soft, pastel dawn light and holding his cup close, he swung his legs up into the swing, stretching them out. Content in the silent solitude, he gently swayed, reading page after page of weeks worth of the La Salle Tribune, as he did the sun climbed high into the sky burning off the morning mist and dew. 

When church bells cut through the still air, he looked up, mumbling, “isn’t Sunday, that doesn’t make much sense.” With a shake of his head, he reached to refill his cup, yet again, and finding the pot empty, headed back in.

Dumping two handfuls in this time, he retopped it with water, and while it boiled, ate another piece of cake. Taking his fresh brew back out to the porch, he sipped at a steaming cup while standing on the steps. He cocked his head, ‘is that singing?’ A frown furrowed his brow, ‘words are foreign.’ Curious; he strolled down to Lottie’s front gate facing the main thoroughfare.

Looking up the street toward town, he saw a procession of long robed church men being followed by, what looked to be, a good deal of the town. And, it was from them, all of them, that strange, almost, chanting song arose. His nose twitched and stepping deeper into the shadows of the gate arch, covered thickly in five-leaf ivy; he watched whole families parade by, laden with bouquets of flowers and baskets brimming with gardening, household cleaning supplies, and festivities for picnicking.

They all looked so joyfully serene. He swallowed hard, unable to fathom what was occurring, and with a shake of his head, he returned to the porch, to find Lottie drinking a cup of coffee, watching him from her spot on the swing.

“You need a m _ademoiselle_ in your life, Heyes, if’n for no other reason than to make you decent _café,_ I had to add a double heap of cream and sugar to this brew of yours.”

Heyes dimpled smile appeared “Don’t need anyone to teach me how to make coffee, I like mine just fine, thank you.” Taking up the pot, he warmed his cup, but his eyes strayed to the singing crowd cresting the hill on the horizon.

“That ain’t my cup of drink niether…” Lottie stated, waving a hand at the disappearing parade, taking another drink from her cup, “whew, not sure this is either. This rot could make a person’s hair stand on end.”

Still watching the townsfolks, Heyes asked, “Who are they?”

“The sort who looks down their pert noses at the likes of you and _moi_.”

Crossing his arms, Heyes’ smile flattened.

She took another sip, watching him over the brim of her cup, “It is All Saints Day.”

He sucked on the inside of his lower lip, his nose wrinkling.

And, a tickled laugh rolled from Lottie, “Ah Darlin’, you sure are sweet to look on when you're vexed.”

A corner of his mouth softened.

“You ain’t Catholic…”

He shook his head.

“Not even Methodist, I suspect, my Papa always called them half-Catholics.”

One eyebrow arched, a dimple appearing.

“All in all, I reason it is why you are not understandin’ All Saints Day.” She patted the swing seat.

Striding over, he sat down, her verbena perfume entwining itself about him.

“It is the day families go to the cemetery to honor those they loved. They clean the sites; decorate ‘em… just beautifully they do. When the work is all done, they have a right _bonne_ picnic…” She looked off where the families had gone. “… they laugh, tell stories, and remember those who have passed.”

His dark eyes tracked the far crest in the road, “sounds kind of nice.”

Lottie nodded, “if ‘n you got family there, it would be.” Laying a hand on his muscled thigh, she gave it a squeeze. “Come on, Darlin’, let’s go rustle us up some breakfast.”

“I had cake already.”

A robust laugh burst from her and catching her breath, she squeezed his thigh again, “Of course, you did. What _garcon_ can resist cake?”

A furrow appeared in Heyes’ brow, “I don’t know much French, however, I do know _garcon_ means boy and Lottie, I haven’t been a boy for a long time.”

Quick as a bird she kissed him on his high curved cheekbone, “Ah Darlin’, all y’all _monsieurs_ retain a bit of _garcon_ in ya till the day y’all die… and I deem you outlaws, got y’all even a bit more of that wild, never grow up streak. Must be why I’m so charmed and drawn to y’all bad _monsieurs._ ”

When the Devil’s Hole Gang departed Lottie’s Chicken Ranch there was a heavy line of clouds drifting in from the north, trapping a thick, golden light beneath them that set the world on fire; each autumn clad tree seeming more beautifully vibrant than the last. But, this was not noticed by the hungover men slumped in their saddles.

Raising his head, Preacher shielded his eyes, “that bank looks to be carrying snow.”

Working at prying black licorice strips apart, Kyle took a look, “agree with ya, but it still be a ways off.”

“I wouldn’t of missed last night for anything,” Lobo stated, taking off his hat and rubbing a hand through his hair, “but I sure might of changed a few choices, if I knew my head was going to feel this way.”

“I told you, that Frenchie champainee would makes ya head hurt.” Kyle stated, shoving a strip of candy into his mouth, “it done the same to me, when I drank it another time.”

Passing him a lopsided grin, Lobo said, “Mz. Lottie sure does know how to throw a shindig. That is for sure.”

John turned in his saddle, “Hey, Merkle, did ya wind up nestin’ with Lilly, like you wanted?”

“I did.” Merkle replied, with a grin. “Only there wasn’t a whole lot of nesting more rustling, if you got my meaning.”

Each outlaw did and their conversation became louder, more colorful, and unashamed as their horses plodded down the backside of the hill; where the road meandered into a sloping valley.

From the front, Curry called back, “pipe down the lot of you.” Jabbing a gloved hand at a cemetery they were approaching.

Le Salle Cemetary sat in the curve of the valley, pretty as a picture or so the saying goes, nestled between shrub rows with a bubbling brook at its backside, and shady oaks releasing curled brown leaves like lazy birds to the ground. However, it was the families scattered across the cemetary that had Curry shushing the outlaws following him.

Riding along, they took in the folks cleaning and decorating graves, a fire crackling near the creek where several women were cooking and children playing in an unused portion of the grounds. As they watched, they also steered their horses about Heyes, who had reined his sorrel to a halt in the middle of the road.

Hank asked, no one in particular, “what are they doin’?”

It was Heyes, who answered, his voice sounding soft as the oak leaves floating down, “Honoring their loved ones.”

Hank nodded, several of the others frowned, their own consciences nagging them.

Chirking to his gelding, Heyes aimed him for the grassy ditch by the cemetery corner.

Veering about him, Kyle reined in, “Uhm Heyes, I know ya drank more than a Kilkinney last night, but this here, well it just mights not be the best place to relieve yourself.”

Hearing this, Curry turned in his saddle to see his cousin stepping down from his horse.

Not thinking his leader had heard him, Kyle rolled the wad of licorice more into his cheek, calling out, “Heyes?” in a much clearer voice.

The dark eyes that turned back, held a coldness which only an imbecile could miss, “Kyle, I am not relieving myself. Ride on!”

Shrugging down between his shoulders, Kyle kicked his little paint into a jog, to catch the others whom were nearly past the picket, border fence.

Whoaing next to Curry, Wheat harrumphed,  “What’s he up to?”

“Aim to find out.” Curry answered, turning his big bay, “keep ‘em heading for the Hole.”

Swinging down beside Heyes’ gelding, Curry dropped his reins, ground tying his horse next to the sorrel; who was contentedly grazing.

Approaching his partner, Curry could hear Heyes’ leather gloves creak as he gripped the fence. Taking a breath, he ascertained their gang had rode on as he ordered; before laying a hand on Heyes’ back, when he did, beneath his palm the tight muscles flinched.

“That should be us.”

Curry’s blue eyes scanned the neat rows of limestone grave markers, his mouth twisting to one side. “What are you talking about?”

“Those families tending to the graves of those they love, sharing this day and their memories with their children.” Heyes turned from the cemetery, his eyes glistening in his drawn face. “That should be us.”

Licking at his lower lip, Curry felt a tight lump forming somewhere between his throat and heart, “Come on.” He looked toward the north and back, “there’s snow coming.” And, grasping Heyes’ arm he moved to lead him off.

Jerking sideways, Heyes’ sharply withdrew, snapping, “Don’t be herding me!”

Curry’s full mouth pinched tight and exhaling slowly, he hitched his thumbs in his belt.

“Don’t you ever consider what our lives could have been?”

“You know, I do.” Curry responded, folding his arms across his chest. “And, you are the one who trained me to not think on it and to _not_ speak of it!”

Leaning back into his heels, Heyes nodded, his eyes drifting to the families in the valley below, “they looks so happy with their loved ones near and….departed.”

Stepping so close, his shoulder brushed against his cousins, Curry answered, in a voice sounding years younger and unjaded by time, “They do, at that.”

For a time they stood, lost in thoughts, but together with the warmth of the sun soaking into their shoulders.

“I get lonely.”

“I know you do.” Curry replied, bumping against his cousin, “I do, too. But, we’ll see them again one day.”

A shuddered sigh escaped Heyes.

“We will.”

“I get to feeling, sometimes, the wait is too long.” Heyes said, tugging at his left glove, folding the top back, “and, too far away.”

From the slant of his eye, Curry kept watch. He was well used to Heyes’ moodiness that lead to somber days, sullen nights, which once overwhelmed him would send his cousin running for all day and night poker games, hours upon hours of reading, or detailed plotting his next elaborate heist. While he was in that state, his silver tongue could turn mean striking out like a hornet. Except, all of those points wrapped together had assisted in creating the image of the formidable, outlaw leader he was. However, this was different. As Curry watched him, he could see the man standing next to him, at this moment, was not the great and famous, often feared Hannibal Heyes; it was merely his cousin, Han, who carried the load and, right now, his heart was breaking.

Spinning Curry wrapped his arms about him and Heyes did not pull away, but sunk into him, “Kid, back in Wichita…”

“Uh huh.”

“…when I was shot.”

Curry pulled him closer, holding him tighter. For a time, Heyes returned the hug, but then signaled he wished to be free by leaning back. Reluctantly, Curry did as he wanted; wondering when was the last time he had felt the honest comfort of family, so close, as he just had.

Taking off his hat, Heyes ran the brim through his fingers, looking up with a faltering smile, “When that bullet struck me and I was lying in the street… I felt cold and all that was real drifting from me and it felt like....” he looked away, “… felt like Mama was there holding me.”

Curry swallowed, but didn’t dare move for fear Heyes would cease speaking.

“I’ve tried to retain the feeling of her being there… of her holding me. I know it sounds loco, but Kid, I could feel her, smell her… She was there. And, I have tried to hold onto it… but it’s slipped away.” As he finished speaking, he looked to the cemetery, the families had been called down to eat, and the graves now stood all alone in the heavy, golden sunlight. “Sometimes, I just wish….”

Draping an arm about his shoulders, Curry herded him toward their horses and this time he went along peacefully, “I know, Han, I have wishes, too.”

Gathering their reins, they swung into their saddles and taking a long drink of cold water from his canteen, Heyes passed it to his partner, who did the same. When he took it back, hanging it on his saddle horn, he half under his breath said, “Just wish we had family.”

Walking their horses along the road, Curry motioned toward their gang, in the far distance, “that lousy bunch of owlhoots up there is just as lonesome, each with their own sad story. But, we live and eat together, laugh together, fight against each other, and protect each other’s backsides. In our own way, we are a family.”

Heyes grinned a bit, “Well then, we are one hard knock family.”

“Suppose we are,” A wide, loving smile flooded Curry’s face, “And, I’ve got you. Always had you, best family a soul could ever want.”

“Thanks, Kid.” Heyes replied, his smile growing.

Seeing the second dimple flickering, lightly, in his cousin’s face, Curry nodded, knowing Heyes would soon have the old pain that had so injured him back under lock and key. Urging the lock back in place, he, laughingly, called, “And, of course, you’ve got ME!”

“Yes, I do! And, Kid, I wouldn’t do without you.” Heyes responded, his smile spreading out, full and big, until his dark eyes crinkled, nearly, closed. “Yup, I got you.” He shook his head at Curry, “but you bring up them bloomers again, not so sure, I will have you much longer. ‘Cause I’ll be flattening you like you’ve never seen before.”

Curry’s toothy grin appeared, his eyebrows rising up, “Like to see you try.”

“Go on and bring up them bloomers again.” Heyes chided with a full laugh, slapping his split reins across his horse’s rump. 

 

 


End file.
